"fitfully" poems
he, hardly fit,
sleeps fitfully
he, like a baby,
up and down at 2am
the cerebrum racked,
like a street *** so needy,
for a low caloric,
non-alcoholic snack
pickles - the almost zero solution,
dill in particular,
or even the slightly bad boy cousins,
the buttered variety
so in his customized original
100% sleeping skin gear,
standing in front of the shiniest fridge
gleaming,
his unfortunate reflection somewhat
steamy,
indecisive, which, his pickle, to to choose,
which to eat, completely complete,
to celebrate his dietetic restraint
so she, the yoga ballerina lioness,
finds him upright but not uptight,
leaving him in an awkward
so to speak, poem, pickling,
naked and speechless,
as the mouth is fully engorged
and on point
she summarizes
most eloquently,
the ****** and the crudités and the et. al.,
with a succinctly pithy observation:
*"ah, I see (me wincing),
still crazy after all these years*
...and other stories*
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
Oh, hello itch,
I've not missed you!
Nor your pleading, uneasy,
Eager smile,
Wicked begging eyes,
And hungry open mouth.
I've quite enjoyed this past while,
Lacking your insistent whispers.
Your lustful face
Looming round each corner of my boxed up,
Broken brain -
'FRAGILE - Do Not Break'
Ignored by the world -
Allowing you unforced entry,
You made a home
Hidden in the shadow
Of my unconscious darkness.
Fitfully coming to light
To remind me
Of yours and therefore my own;
Plea to die.
Dec 9, 2022
Dec 9, 2022 at 7:47 AM UTC
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
4.3k
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
4.3k
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
3.7k
Restless hungry, found a tiny scrap of a brownie in the back of the refrigerator, wrapped in plastic about the size of a large 35 cent quarter.
Gobbled up and gone.
Eye had purchased it a week ago, maybe more.
Actually it was more like eye was held up at gunpoint by a sad young face for a large and green single dollar Bill.
In return, was bequeathed said brownie eye dropper-ful.
The apartment I live in a big city, many apartments were recession empty for a long time. But in the last few years, the empty apartments in the building were almost all sold to foreigners.
Now the bldg is an amulet melted of the lucky overseas fortunate, those overseers overseas seizers, who come to reside in the most fabulous site in these United States...and buy a piece of the dream away from the be-headers, secret police or governments that decide you are now an enemy of the state, as of this morning. No judgement.
anyway, this doe eyed child of estimated six or eight years of age accosts me in our large lobby, proffers me the brownie scrap for a Bill.
me a sucker of a salesman myself, and an eye affician-doe, well those doefuls, those eyes, no one could resist!
so eye asked her name,
but all she could say in
Anglais was...
"Brownie One Dollar?"
laughing out loud for no apparent cause,
the hanging about lobbyists looked at me staring...
Why was eye laughing?
laughing cause eye realized
this elfin child had become
fitfully but fully Americanized.
and I loved her eyes in mine, and when I see her periodically, I say:
"Hey! Brownie One Dollar, How are ya!"
and everyone snicker smiles at the old man with the even stupider grin upon his eyes.
That would be eye.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
Lungs emptied,
I try to cry out but only cry.
My heart beats fitfully,
like a toddler deprived of their favourite toy.
Dread overcomes me,
wholly and completely,
as I realize you aren't coming back.
Heaving sobs will be replaced by
quiet tears,
isolation-
a silent suffering that comes only with time.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
Come, let us to the sunways of the west,
Hasten, while crystal dews the rose-cups fill,
Let us dream dreams again in our blithe quest
O'er whispering wold and hill.
Castles of air yon wimpling valleys keep
Where milk-white mist steals from the purpling sea,
They shall be ours in the moon's wizardry,
While the fates, wearied, sleep.
The viewless spirit of the wind will sing
In the soft starshine by the reedy mere,
The elfin harps of hemlock boughs will ring
Fitfully far and near;
The fields will yield their trove of spice and musk,
And balsam from the glens of pine will fall,
Till twilight weaves its tangled shadows all
In one dim web of dusk.
Let us put tears and memories away,
While the fates sleep time stops for revelry;
Let us look, speak, and kiss as if no day
Has been or yet will be;
Let us make friends with laughter 'neath the moon,
With music on the immemorial shore,
Yea, let us dance as lovers danced of yore
The fates will waken soon!
2.1k
Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.
Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.
Kids slope back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and aromatic oregano
pot-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.
Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.
Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.
Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
My beautiful walking Angel,
please don't fly away.
It was only you who could lift
me, from the darkest night and
days
of life without her.
My walking Angel.
He talks as though he has one foot
above,
he walks this earth afloat
already. Leaving me fitfully to
wait, in my safely anchored boat.
He's so sure of his inadequacy,
yet I would gladly soak myself in fear,
just so that I could have him near.
Sweet glorious Angel.
Clipped wings yet so ready to fly.
If you were to die, then part
of me would surely go too.
I'm already bound to you.
We both chose immediately to
shield that which makes us,
from others,
yet to each other, we managed not
to yield to the temptation of
our defences.
In spite of the offences of those who've
gone past, leaving a lasting brand
in our skin,
of each terrible individual sin.
Each scar wrought within.
Innocent Angel.
I am completely vulnerable to you.
Usually so overly aware of danger,
I have already, affectively,
sworn my life to you.
This next page is yours.
Dangerous Angel.
Whether you lift me up to fall,
or pull me down to drown,
I shall walk where you tread.
A breadcrumb trail of tears in my wake,
as I am shaken awake from your
dream
Your soul left to rest in the gleam of
my eye.
An unsnuffable candle
to guide you back to me.
Athiest Angel, I was asleep before
you came
and awoke me with your kiss,
jerking my heart from it's
Ivy covered cage,
our instantaneous gauge
of our compatibility
creating a feasibility
of merging.
Gentle Angel.
You took my beating soul
and gouged it with
a caress,
spelt your name
and my destruction,
with your irresistible seduction
of vulnerability,
and tranquility
of purity.
My tender Angel.
Your knifepoint was always fated
for my ribs.
Take me with you if you leave,
allow me to anchor-
no better- hold you,
and embolden you to be
whatever the **** you want to be.
With your battered suitcase of a soul.
How many more kicks can you take
before they pack you in?
The irony in that the sin was never yours.
I abhor those who chose to lord over you.
Please come aboard my raft of
defiance, which is learning the science
of your chemistry.
Darling Angel.
I do not wish you to fall or fly,
instead remain afloat,
allow me to paddle my unshakeable boat
towards you,
with a view of amorous intentions.
My salvation,
who will surely be
my downfall,
my Samson.
I know what you have undone.
Me.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
We began with doubts in the dark night-
Everything that came under the sky of night-
The noiseless stars -that were just flickers
In the crisp air of a deep night and crickets
That creaked from dark and thorny bushes.
We thought of sultry bears that came down
From the hills for ripe sugarcane in fields
On windy nights when we were sleeping
On the river bank, with a long stick safely
Sleeping beside us on a springy string cot.
The dogs sculpted their own long protests
At the howling wind and bush rat’s scrawl .
There in the sketchy bushes of darkness
The lizards slept fitfully wary of night snakes.
Outside, the fireflies tantalized the country.
Our doubts persisted through the night ,
Going on unabated in sleep and dreams.
At the cock's crow they dissolved in sleep.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
Through the masks and obscured within the lies, lays the truth unsaid in which all despise
Too much had been appraised, and much was fitfully un-right, so vastly dark within folded light
He was King, and she forever his Queen, still they hold each others hands, a thrilling vice in which they teamed
Their faces lit with withering sight, flightless eyes instead of cocky fulfilled and streaming plight
They tangoed to flooded phantom operas and darkly lit scenes, set with bloodset roses and heartfelt keys
Bowing inside the night they longfully romanced, ballerined on fruitless olden toes that would soon become cramped
Whispering together, they flee against the mournless sounds, that crept and prowled outside the bounds'
Deciding a long time ago to dance their lives away, to live within the fleeting joy and feel their heartbeats sway
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
I remember like it was the day before
All those clever, well-crafted barbs thrown in my direction.
I remember the tears of youth unbroken by childish laughter.
The pain knew where to find me at the core of my core.
Left naked in a storm of scorn with no protection,
So long ago, but the hate lingers after.
Fitfully, vainly trying to stop up every hole
Before the hate finds a way to escape
And race down the corridors of my mind.
It will find the center of my soul
And there take on its awful shape
Only to leave a legacy of anger behind.
Trying to hold the darkness at bay
With self-made sunshine and lifted chin
But the memories of anger soak through me like rain.
I look back on memories tinted watercolor gray.
No true sunlight finds its way in
And the darkness of pain and hate swallows me whole once again.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Oh, **** you.
Same cursed disease.
That took my beloved mother,
Right away from me.
Heathen Blood spewers,
Choking women at the seams,
cutting into lungs like,
My empty heart beats,
gore into my arteries,
I need you to go away,
Before my sanity leaves me.
The images flashing into my head,
The death that you bring,
Oh rear it all upon me.
Why can I not be cursed,
Why not punish me.
Cruel fates,
I want to absorb theirs,
Take it back and drink it dry,
And die fitfully,
Painfully,
Pneumonia,
How lonely,
You make me.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
I awake before dawn and call out to the Moon,
But the Moon is missing, she has other duties to attend to.
I sleep fitfully, aware that something is missing.
I awaken at dusk and call to the Sun,
But the Sun is missing, he has other lands to shine upon.
I wake with uncertainty, aware that something is missing.
I wake up in the midlands of night, in the close darkness
And I realize then that there is no longer anybody to call out to;
Whether I sleep or wake again is no longer important.
I send word to the Sun not to awaken me.
I send word to the Moon not to expect me-
I must go where light and darkness can freely mix,
And where things grow, touchless beneath a hidden sky;
Nothing is not there that should be,
Nothing is there that should not be:
And I am my own Moon, mirrored Suns shining from every secret eye.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
he sniffed her out
she fell for his charm
she fell into his bed
too fast
too fast
passion
or frenzy?
over & over
again & again
he pinned her down
red ribbons,
red dress on the floor
it wasn't sweet
it wasn't sweet
my, what big
teeth you have
what big marks they leave
the sun rose
the moon set
he slept fitfully
bruised, ****** & sore,
she waited
finally he woke &
crunch,
munch
he ate her for lunch
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
One more recess
and I depress the lever
then laying prone
with a metronome that ticks away
like a clock that's gone awry
I lie and close my eyes and listen to the steady beat
tick
tick
I lick chapped lips and wonder where the balm would be
inside the conservatory
or in the kitchen drawer?
My lips are sore
my life's a bore and so, prone upon the bed
I step outside of this weary head and wander through the passages
remembering massages and brief encounters
steps on which I've stood and wept
stairways crept up fitfully
just to see what was up there
and now
I come across the bare light
the coldness of the moonlight
and the howling of the winds that bite and harried me along
for I in fear would not delay
to welcome in another day and welcome out the night
polite is always best to be
never know when you might see or need a darker place
so just in case
I go that extra mile put out a charming smile
and all the while
my insides churn
my body burns
twists and turns and
in turns I see
the metronome that laughs at me
and what a waste then it would be
tick
tick
never as sick as when you're well
too much heaven down here in hell.
Then rising
realising that I'm back at where I started from
is like someone has dropped the bomb
and I am just collateral
a colony of flattery
and a sycophantic man I'll be
until the evening when I see
that no one stands alone with me.
In this saturation
this desolation spiced up with my perspiration
I don't smell so sweet
another timely beat from my friend metronome
ticks the box and I am home
tomorrow I may lie prone again
tomorrow just might be the same as if in this never ending game
I do not go to jail or collect my bonus from the bank.
Why So Serious
well Frank, the Government sponsored failsafe think tank
said to me,
'drug free is the way to go and then he went'
leaving me with bones so crooked,bent I can hardly stand
A helping hand that helps itself
to dreams of youthfulness and health
I see
or rather cannot see
what is the point and what's for me
but that is just another lie
tick
tick
my how time does fly.
Why
I don't think I'l ever know the answers that I seek so
dearly
I'm not nearly bright enough.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
I’m watching you
In the dark alleyways, where I gaze on as a mugging occurs
And standing on that gloomy, silent street corner, the little red light of my cigarette glowing
And from the roof of the echoing parking garage next to a lone car
And as I rest my back against the cold stone of a crypt in a graveyard
I’m watching you
In the dimly lit, empty café, where I sip a cup of loneliness
And as I dance in the smoky, sweating aliveness of the nightclubs
And as I stare at the waves on the deserted, moonlit boardwalk
I’m watching you
Seated atop the Sphinx of Giza in the freezing Egyptian night
And in the very back row of an empty baseball stadium
And in a prison cell, where a death row inmate sleeps fitfully
I'm watching you
Right behind you, but you don't know I'm there
I'm watching you
Always watching
In the night
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 10:51 AM UTC
caught between coughs
& cacophonous laughter
sits either a frog or a toad
fitfully croaking in my throat:
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreg
I have named him Pride - he is desperately talkative,
usually squirming & occasionally provocative
oh, how the fellow moves
& if I ease up, how he bellows!
listen to him now:
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrret
Someday, I am sure, I'm bound to lose restraint
after having also lost my breath (which you invariably take)
I will let my guard down, further than I am used to
slip up & out he will come, causing a scene
he'll yell what he's been meaning to for so long:
**THIS DUDE IS A MANIAC!
I AM FINALLY FREE FROM HIS LONELY WRETCHEDNESS!
HE HAS HAD ME TRAPPED INSIDE OF
HIM FOR AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER!
HAVEN'T YOU NOTICED?! ALL OF THIS TIME?
HE MUST HAVE SEEMED UNCOMFORTABLE
- I KNOW I HAVE BEEN!
also, it is worth noting that he loves you for everything you are & do, intentionally or otherwise.
he doesn't believe anyone is perfect, but holds you as the closest standard & can't imagine better.
when you're around he claims his heart's weak & won't let me near out of fear of my harming it.
even though that's a lie, I'm glad, because it beats with such terrific ferocity that'd surely do me in,
ISN'T THAT INSANE???**
He'd then hop off
to a pond or wooded area
or - well I guess there are toads in deserts, too.
But hopefully, someday I'll just swallow my Pride
& tell you all of that myself.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Decidedly blase, as the hours tumble past
If divinatory; as the strains of old fugues
That once roused us to incoherent victories.
Never mind that the **** crowed thrice,
Ere you forgot our names-
And lord, the company you keep
Locked in that old hobnail chest;
How you'd be disdained, were it known
The lampshades here drink old *****
Under a goat-grey sky, at morning
And your key's sloppy turning, meteor-like
On its slow approach, at decoding the lock.
But sleeping fitfully now, on the porch,
Your muddy shoes can tell no tales
Of your evenings holy grails.
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:44 PM UTC
Insomnia thou art my lovely mistress,
Enticing me further into the darkest mornings,
And then leaving my bed lonely at day break,
to go find another man.
Still, half loyally, you come back to me...
And oh, though otherwise I try, fitfully,
I find myself always opening my sheets,
And snuggling up close to you,
As if the cold of death and desperation,
is my only warmth.
It begets only painful awakenings,
And much like a good mistress,
The womb of your efforts,
Bears no fruit,
Nay just desecration of my psyche,
Just a half step in one realm,
and a half step half asleep.
Ah, what should I do,
Fight your presence off dearly?
I'm afraid I"ve had you round so long,
I can't remember myself lonely.
Imagine that, I guess,
I'll have to settle for your back handed love,
And ponder many more twilight mornins,
With you, my beloved insomnia.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 6:17 AM UTC
my home
is not
the room
where i sleep
fitfully.
or the house,
broken memories
and walls
the color
of
****
my home
is the
off-key
singing
with my sister
in her car.
the buttered popcorn
from the movie theater
that we ate together,
her and my brother and i.
the spring air
as we ran with her dog.
the monotone
of teachers droning on,
the bright laughter
of my friends.
home is made
of the little
bits of joy
that
we’ve left
scattered
behind
us.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
the cold and the snow
hang above in giant monochrome lungs
that sag and are filled with fluid halfway
to crystal: clouds that devour themselves
and spit themselves back out
quietly above us.
we wait for the grand purge.
the throwdown of winter's hands.
the release of copious white.
the gentle unfold of sloping blankets
and ice expanding in every concrete vein.
we wait for the wind that has teeth in it's mouth and
a deep throat. a wind that grew fierce rolling fitfully across
aching prairie miles.
it is nearly december and every day we
wonder about the impending deep freeze.
we consider (eyes cast warily upward)
the fist of mid-January noon,
the subtle split of lips and chapped hands,
boots gnawed by salt spilled raw on the streets,
necks and legs
and fingers and feet
put away until spring-
swaddled in flannel wool goosedown cotton tightly wound
until all curvature is lost.
how we will shuffle penny-eyed between pockets of
warmth, curled into ourselves
in protection of our hearts that rattle sweetly beneath
every binding layer,
buried in a six month breadth
of silence.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 6:30 PM UTC
Oh, cynic-
All those years of abridging the files left for you-
And whittling away at your own tusks-
To annex wild nerve and stove-top instinctivity-
Extemporising on an instrument that you actually did invent-
And then using it to pry open the kitchen window-
Asking the neighbor for a sword of keratin straight to the belt-
“It would show that I am, literally, made of (fitfully) lifeless halves.”
Anyway-
There’s that old-dresser where you stored plans of-
Delineating a white-white city for you to call home-
and then instructions to call it anesthetized due to it’s lack of horses-
Destroy it and all matter within a one-hundred mile radius of your current location.
I’m aware the end-product has cradled you since the first day you were alive-
but, it doesn’t anymore-
I do-
and I will not let my arms grow soar without affording them your recognition.
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 4:19 AM UTC